Reckless (8 page)

“Because everything about you is a risk,” she said, her voice just a notch above a whisper even though her tone was bedrock firm. “Fifty bucks says you're so stuck in the shoot-first-ask-questions-later habits that landed you here that you're not going to be anything other than a huge problem in my kitchen.”

Alex's defenses uncurled in his belly, low and hot, like the first few flames of a brush fire jumping to life. “Those habits happen to make me a good firefighter. The kind who saves lives.”

But Zoe shook her head, ruffling the loose strands of hair around her face. “Not for the next four weeks they don't.”

His molars went on lockdown, with barely enough room for his words to escape. “I don't need a reminder, Gorgeous.”

“Don't call me that.” Zoe's eyes glittered with high-octane emotion at the same time her cheeks flushed a dark, sexy pink, and Alex would've been shocked if he wasn't so busy being turned on from his brain to his balls.

“Why not?”

“Because.” Her ripe-cherry mouth pressed into a thin line. “You're already not taking me or anything else about this placement seriously. I don't need you to make fun of me on top of it.”

Alex's gaze traveled the length of her, from the crown of her honey-blond head to the provocative swell of cleavage peeking up from the
V
of her shirt, lowering still to the matching flare of her sweet, sinful hips, and his words grated up from the darkest part of his chest.

“And what if I'm not making fun of you?”

Zoe paused, her pupils dilating enough to darken her stare to a deep, chocolate brown despite the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. For a bare fragment of a second, she tipped her chin toward him, just enough to reveal the wild flutter of the pulse point where her neck sloped into her shoulder. But then she snapped to attention, as if her spine had suddenly discovered it was made of triple-reinforced titanium, and the molten heat in her eyes morphed into cool determination.

“You're not going to flirt your way into my good graces, Donovan. Your reputation and your recklessness are written all over your résumé. Feeding these people is important, and there's no room for your brand of risk-taking in my kitchen, period.”

“I'm not completely incapable of following the rules.” Hadn't he just proved it by telling her about all those safety regs for skydiving? There had to be dozens of them, for Chrissake, and he followed every one, down to the last syllable.

Zoe scooped up the container holding the lettuce, handing it back to him with the kind of polite smile reserved for your least favorite ex and door-to-door salesmen. “Right. And I'm not completely incapable of taking risks, as you already pointed out.”

Alex followed her over to the food prep sink at the back of the kitchen, lettuce in tow. “A little honest to God risk-taking wouldn't hurt you, you know.”

He hesitated while an idea took root in his head, his heartbeat kicking against his ribs as the notion grew. He knew—he
knew
this was a bad plan, born of all sorts of self-preserving, fast-talking, bad-plan things. But the image of Zoe's face, caught up in the momentary burst of both curiosity and daring possibility as she'd asked him about skydiving, flashed across his mind's eye, and all of a sudden, Alex was done thinking.

He placed the container on the ledge next to the sink, serving up his cockiest grin. This was either going to be brilliant or it was going to blow up in his face like his own personal Armageddon. But he had nothing to lose except time, and anyway, finding out what Zoe Westin was really made of?

Yeah. Worth every inch of the risk.

“As a matter of fact, let's brass these tacks once and for all,” he said, his words carving a hot path out of his mouth. He reached out, slipping the detachable nozzle for the faucet sprayer from Zoe's fingers, and her corresponding laughter popped out on a gasp.

“What are you talking about?”

Alex returned the nozzle to its housing with a
click
, turning to look her right in the eye. “I'm talking about a deal. I'll play by the rules in your kitchen, right down to learning how to cook, for the next four weeks . . .
if
you spend one day doing something risky with me and end up truly hating it.”

Zoe's brows slid together, her face marked with more doubt than deep thought. “How do you know I won't just tell you I hate it no matter what?”

“I don't. But you were true to your word this morning when you let me stick around, so if I was a betting man—and it just so happens I am—I'd be willing to take a flyer and say I think you're a pretty honest woman.”

For a minute, she said nothing, but then she broke the silence with, “You're willing to risk four entire weeks of following the rules without complaint, all on the microscopic chance that I won't hate whatever risky endeavor you throw in my direction?”

Oh. Hell. Yes.
“Absolutely. If you give me your word you'll be honest, I'll give you mine that I'll follow through if you really, truly hate being reckless. All you have to do is trust me—
really
trust me—for just one day.”

Her eyes narrowed, and holy shit, she was thinking about it. “And what is it we'll be doing, exactly?”

“Something a little risky,” Alex said, his pulse quickening at her obvious shock even though he'd fully expected her reaction.

“You're not going to tell me?”

“That would be the first risk.”

Zoe's titanium spine grew a matching facial expression. “I'm not going skydiving, Alex.”

Ah hell. He wanted to challenge her, not chase her off. “And based on our earlier conversation, I wouldn't ask you to. No skydiving,” he agreed. “But for the rest, you're going to have to trust me.”

Alex leaned in, close enough to breathe in the brisk citrus scent of her hair, and the combination of sweet versus tart shot straight to his gut as he said, “So what's it going to be, Gorgeous? Are you in, or are you out?”

Chapter Seven

Zoe traced the bright red Scarlett's Diner logo on the menu in front of her with one finger, her eyes making an obligatory scan of the breakfast options even though she hadn't changed her usual order in over a decade. Clacking the menu shut, she let her gaze wander through the sun-filled window at her elbow, taking in the post rush-hour bustle as she slowly gathered her resolve. These Friday morning breakfast dates with her father, where they exchanged pleasantries and danced artfully around the twin elephants in the room named Divorce and Disapproval, were really bad enough. But today she had to contend with the ridiculous arrangement she'd made with Alex, too, and honestly, all the fortitude in the galaxy might not get her through the double header.

Who the hell had been in charge of her mouth when she'd impulsively blurted “fine” in response to his risk-reward challenge, Zoe had no idea. But the promise of Alex's much needed help sans his reckless, who-cares attitude had been all too appealing, and one eight-hour chunk of her life had seemed like a smart trade-off for four weeks of slow and steady work that she wouldn't have to pry out of him or worry about at every turn.

Even if she was one million percent certain she'd spend all of her day with him regretting it.

“Morning, Zoe. Can I get you some coffee?”

Zoe straightened against the red leather banquette at her back, knocking herself back to the here and now. Sara Martin, who had been waiting tables at Scarlett's since she and Zoe had been in high school together, held up a pot of the diner's city-famous brew, and Zoe's mouth watered in a way that would make Pavlov beam with pride.

“Oh God, yes. Please.” Zoe flipped the white ceramic mug in front of her to a right side up position, nudging it across the patterned Formica to put it in Sara's reach. If anything could jump-start her in the right direction, Scarlett's coffee definitely topped the list.

“So how's it going over there at Hope House?” Sara's brown ponytail slid over her shoulder as she leaned in to fill Zoe's cup with just enough room to accommodate the healthy splash of cream Zoe favored. Although they'd spoken more words in the three months Zoe had been back than they had in all four years of high school combined, Zoe worked up an optimistic smile. Sara's steel-toed crowd might've scared her ten years ago, and the woman might still be a little rough around the borders, but Zoe had learned a lot about judging people from the so-called wrong side of Fairview since high school.

“We're getting there,” she said. “There's still only enough funding for us to run five days a week, but last month we were able to add hot breakfast on a limited basis, so it's a step in the right direction.”

Zoe hated not being able to feed the shelter residents three square meals, seven days a week, but limited five-day service had been her only option since they'd opened the soup kitchen's doors. What wasn't an option, however, was going back-to-back days without offering any kind of food service, especially when the meals at the soup kitchen were often the only thing the residents had to eat. With Friday being payday for most people—as meager as it might be for Hope House's residents—it seemed the best day to close the kitchen in favor of having breakfast and lunch service on Saturdays.

Sara nodded, just a quick tip of her chin. “Well, I think it's cool you're able to feed so many people, although with all that experience you've got, I bet you don't hate the cooking.”

“I don't hate the cooking,” Zoe agreed, selecting her words with care. Might as well warm up for the dance and defend she was about to have with her father. But, God, even though Fairview wasn't a small city by any means, everybody sure was on a first name basis with what Zoe had left behind in DC.

“Nice to do what you love,” Sara murmured, dropping her gaze to the Formica as she gestured to the empty coffee cup across from Zoe. “Let me go ahead and fill that for your dad.”

“Oh, but he's not . . .” Zoe shifted her sights from the woman in front of her to the main entrance of the diner, a ribbon of surprise uncurling in her belly at the sight of her father making his way past the brightly stenciled plate glass.

“Wow.” Zoe flipped the mug and slid it across the tabletop with a soft
shush
. “Your head is on one hell of a swivel.”

“Keeps me honest.” Sara lifted one shoulder beneath her bright red T-shirt. She filled the empty coffee cup, stepping back from the table at the exact moment Zoe's father appeared at her side.

“Morning, Captain. Can I get you anything else to drink today?”

Zoe's father smiled, the move showcasing a set of wrinkles around his eyes that were a relatively recent acquisition.

“No, thanks, Sara, although you can go ahead and put me down for the usual for breakfast. I'm starving.”

“You got it. Zoe, you going for your usual, too?”

No point in knocking a good, reliable meal, and anyway, she needed all the energy she could get today. “Yes, please.”

Sara nodded and angled herself back toward the long stretch of counter space that led to the pass-through to Scarlett's kitchen. “One breakfast special, eggs over easy, bacon crisp, hash browns on the side, and one veggie egg white omelet, extra green peppers, no onions, cheddar cheese, coming right up.”

“Thanks.” The smile Zoe's father gave Sara in parting became decidedly more difficult to decipher as he turned it on Zoe in greeting, gesturing to the booth she'd chosen in the intersection of the L-shaped diner before sitting down across from her. “Still opting for the best seat in the house, I see.”

“I never sit with my back to the door. You taught me that when I was twelve.” Along with how to catalogue all the exits in a building, how to estimate the number of steps to get to said exits, and how to determine which one was most viable for a safe escape in an emergency. After all, you could take the man out of the firehouse, but taking the firehouse out of the man? Not even Saint Anthony could pull off that miracle.

Her father straightened the cuffs of his dark brown canvas jacket, lifting a brow as he wrapped his hands around the cup of coffee Sara had left on the table. “Well, I suppose it's good to see you haven't lost
all
regard for your safety.”

Great. Looked like they were going to bypass well-mannered conversation and jump right in to the disapproval portion of the morning. Not that her father would actually cave and express his emotions directly so they could actually talk about them. God, all this bobbing and weaving was enough to drive a woman bat-shit crazy.

Zoe sighed. “I'm not a little girl anymore, Dad.”

“No, you're not,” her father said, his voice remaining perfectly level despite the taut line of his jaw that said his molars had just gone tighter than Fort Knox on lockdown. “You're a woman—a pretty woman—who puts in all sorts of odd hours in a terrible neighborhood. You're also my daughter. As much as you might hate it, I'm not going to apologize for not liking your job or worrying about your welfare.”

Her hands tightened to fists over the paper napkin in her lap, although she regulated her voice to its calmest setting to match her father's. “And as much as
you
might hate it, I'm not going to apologize for running the kitchen at Hope House. Look, I get that you're disappointed I left Kismet.” She stopped, letting the serrated pang of his disapproval stick into her for a second before pulling up her chin to soldier past it. “But feeding people is what I do, and nobody needs it more than the people at the shelter. Anyway, it's not as if I'm putting
my
life on the line every time I go to work just because Hope House is in a poor neighborhood.”

Her father didn't flinch at the unspoken implication—not that she'd expected him to. God, this conversation could probably have itself, they'd been through it so many times, which was pretty ironic considering he never actually expressed his feelings in anything other than gruff one-liners and heavy innuendo that reeked of disappointment.

Her father let out a breath, although the ladder of his spine stood firm against the well-cushioned banquette. “I don't want to have another argument with you, Zoe. Can't we just have breakfast together, please?”

She paused. While standing her ground over her work at Hope House was and always had been priority number one, trying to get her father to understand her career change was like shouting into the wind. After three months of her best efforts, all she had was a sore throat and even sorer pride, and she'd sure as hell come by her stubborn streak honestly.

If they weren't going to see eye to eye, the least they could do was share a good, hot meal. Especially since he'd said he was hungry.

“Okay,” she said, releasing her breath on a slow exhale. She examined her father more closely across the table, her eyes purposely avoiding the six-inch swath of scar tissue on his neck while taking in his leaner-than-usual frame and the slashes of dark shadow beneath both eyes. “Speaking of having a meal, you look a little worn out. Are you eating enough?”

“I thought it was my job to look out for you. When did we switch roles?” he asked, and although she eked out a barely there smile at the hint of humor in his non-answer, no way was she letting him off the hook.

“At about the same time you started dodging my questions. Seriously, Dad, when was the last time you had a good meal and some decent sleep?”

“I've been a little busy juggling things at work. I know how you feel about the department.” Her father held up a hand, probably to stave off the frown fitting itself to Zoe's mouth. “But I'm down a man on Engine for four weeks, and that means I've got to fill a lot of holes in the schedule. It's only temporary, but it's still a pain.”

“Boy, don't I know it.” Zoe realized a fraction too late that she'd let the words slip out, and damn it, there was no possible scenario involving Alex Donovan that didn't turn her normally unflagging composure into tapioca. But the last thing she wanted was to bring Alex into the mix of an already precarious conversation, so she dove headfirst into a redirect. “Well, even if you're working overtime, you still should eat. And before you argue, those microwave meal-sicle dinners don't count as food. I'm tinkering with some new recipes on Sunday. I'll bring you a few things to keep on hand so you don't go hungry.”

“You don't need to take care of me,” her father said, clipping out the words just hard enough to make them sharp around the edges. He took a breath, audible and slow, to smooth out the rest. “I'm not a charity case just because your mother and I are no longer married.”

An odd emotion Zoe couldn't pin down glinted in his stare like ice cubes in whiskey, and despite the fact that they'd just called a temporary cease-fire, her own emotions came scraping up from where she'd stuffed them behind her breastbone. “I do if you're not going to take care of yourself. And I don't need a reminder that you and Mom are no longer married.”

Her father sat completely unmoving even though every muscle in his body went bowstring tight, and Zoe's heart gave a stiff twist as she braced herself to blow past the pleasantries and finally,
finally
air out all the laundry that had been spin-cycling between them ever since her parents had separated last year.

But then Sara arrived with their breakfast plates stacked halfway up her forearms, and by the time she'd delivered the food, whatever reply the captain had intended to launch—along with the strange emotion flashing in his eyes—had cooled right back down to unreadable, impenetrable, and totally silent business as usual.

 

 

One hour, two cups of coffee, and three overstarched topics of conversation later, Zoe planted a cool parting kiss on her father's cheek and dropped into the driver's seat of her tried-and-true Prius. While breakfast hadn't exactly been a stroll on the beach, the fact that she'd escaped mostly unscathed gave her hope for the rest of the day.

If only round two wasn't going to be even more difficult to maneuver than a healthy dose of parental disdain.

Making sure her hands-free device was set and ready to go on the polished black dashboard, Zoe popped her iPhone into the waiting dock, tapping her way through the screens to get to her navigation app. She'd only been gone for five years, but downtown Fairview was big enough to make piloting the mostly urban streets a chore, plus the place had seen enough growth spurts in her absence to make her eager for the backup. Alex had stayed true to his promise of remaining completely mum about his plans for their day, to the point that the only advance notice he'd given was that she should wear comfortable clothes she didn't mind sweating in. He hadn't even given her the location for their meet-up until they'd been on their way out of Hope House after last night's dinner shift.

Of course, the address hadn't been immediately familiar. So of course, she'd Googled it.

And of course, other than a grainy aerial photograph of about three city blocks' worth of real estate, she'd come up completely empty.

“Okay. Four-sixty-six Edgewood Avenue,” Zoe murmured, forcing the traitorous tremble in her fingers into submission as she hit the green icon marked Go with the pad of her thumb. At least once she got there—wherever there was—she'd know what sort of reckless crash project she was up against. And more importantly, how to manage it.

She recognized the path through scenic downtown Fairview well enough, even after she'd exchanged the familiarity of Scarlett's location on Church Street for about ten minutes of city driving. Confusion combined with the anticipation already pushing a steady course through her veins, thrumming over her skin in a low prickle as she crossed the threshold of one of Fairview's oldest and quietest urban neighborhoods. The automated voice of her GPS guided her through a maze of neatly kept streets lined with classically understated row homes, and wait . . . this had to be a mistake.